


One Wish

by quartetship



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Implied Time Travel, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Paranormal, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2769011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>["But don't we get a wish, now that it's busted?"</p>
<p>Jean shook his head, tears he knew he'd cried earlier returning to his eyes. </p>
<p>"I think I already used it."]</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Wish

**Author's Note:**

> Now available on AO3, the sort-of, implied time travel fic with sort-of, temporary character death (but not really) that was my first experience in genuinely traumatizing my readers. Lots of fun. :)
> 
> But seriously, it turns out very fluffy. Have faith, friends. 
> 
> And enjoy.   
> \--

"You are absolutely  _insufferable,_  you know that?"  
  
Marco kicked the closet door closed behind him, pulling on his jacket as he looked back over his shoulder sourly. He was never much of a morning person, but Jean's grousing had pushed him to the point of snapping that day; they always seemed to argue more right before he left for business trips.   
  
Jean glared back at him and huffed a response, not willing to let Marco have the upper hand, even if he couldn't remember exactly what they were fighting about. "Yeah? Well, you're a self-righteous asshole."  
  
"Nice. Definitely what I wanna hear before I leave for a week." Marco buttoned his jacket and turned to look back at Jean, arms crossed. Jean didn't soften.  
  
"If you're gonna act like this then maybe I'll be glad to have you gone for five days. Enjoy your luxurious accommodations,  _sir."_  
  
Marco laughed curtly and rolled his eyes. "Enjoy not tripping over your mess, more like."  
  
Jean brought his fist down hard on the back of their couch with a sharp breath, pride injured; he couldn't stop himself spitting his wounded feelings out in words. "If it's such a problem, don't come back."   
  
A pause followed; Jean knew he'd said too much, and would definitely have some apologizing to do later. Especially when Marco drew his eyes down like he was glowering to avoid tears and mumbled a response.   
  
"I have half a mind not to."  
  
"Fine," Jean said flatly. He'd never been good at pulling his foot back out of his mouth once it was there. Marco huffed and turned on his heel, making for the door with a shout.   
  
 _"Fine!"_  
  
With that and the sharp slam of the door, Marco was gone, and Jean went about trying to prepare for work. Maybe the dull silence of the office would help calm his nerves, but working down the hall from Connie and Sasha meant that wasn't extremely likely. He watched out the window as Marco pulled out of their building's driveway and wished him a safe drive, even if it  _was_  spitefully, under his breath. He'd make it up to him later.  
  
\--  
  
It was still a few hours before lunch - and too soon after a dose of aspirin for Jean's stress headache to have let up much - when Connie thumped a hand against the frame of his slightly open office door.   
  
"You hear the news today, man?"  
  
Jean rubbed at his temples and glanced back at Connie, shaking his head. "No, not yet. Can't say I really care to. Why?"  
  
It was only then that he noticed Connie wasn't smiling. "Just some crazy shit, dude. Plane went down outta our airport. 'Bout half an hour ago."  
  
Plane.   
  
 _Marco._  
  
"What? Which flight?!" Jean asked frantically, but he didn't wait for Connie's answer. He bolted from his desk, down the short hallway to the break room where a tv hung on the wall. The news was already on, and Jean stopped where he stood and watched, horrified at what he saw and heard.  
  
"And if you're just joining us, flight 413, bound for Baltimore has gone down this morning, and though emergency responders are still surveying the wreckage there appear to be no survivors. We go now to--"  
  
Jean turned off the television and stared at its dark, blank screen.

413\. Baltimore. Marco's flight.

Behind him Connie was talking, shouting,  _shaking_  him - but nothing was registering. He stood in shocked silence until reality began to seep into the cracks left in his mind from the news broadcast, and the gravity of the situation knocked the wind from his lungs; he struggled to regain it with a wailing sob as he sank to the floor. Connie sat with him until he could breathe enough to stand again, and then drove him home.   
  
\--  
  
With the click of the door closing, Jean bumped into the small shelf on the wall beside their door.  _His door, now,_  he thought for a moment, and an overwhelming rush of guilt and rage flew to his fingers, curling them into fists that slammed down hard against the shelf, snapping it loudly off the wall. The picture frames and glass statues on it shattered, including the small figure he and Marco had come to cherish and laugh about in equal parts. A short, brown ceramic ornament of a man, holding a shiny crystal heart - their prized possession, in a comical sort of way. They'd bought it from a very persistent sales woman on one of their trips to the Hawaiian islands, and she'd woven them a tale of how it possessed the power to grant a single wish.   
  
"The moment it breaks, the magic is released!" She'd said dramatically. "But once it is broken, no force on earth can mend it! One wish, and only one!"  
  
They'd bought it - and a few shirts for good measure - mostly to convince her to stop talking to them. But thinking back on her story, all Jean could hear was her promise;  _once broken, it could not be mended_. Just like the happy life he'd let slip away with an angry Marco that morning. Nothing could change it now. But that didn't stop his heart from straining in his chest as he desperately wished something could.   
  
He held either side of the broken statue in his hands and cried, choked sobs that stole his breath until for a moment - maybe longer - he blacked out entirely. He dreamt of stopping the crash somehow, saving his sweet Marco, bringing him home to rain apologies on, but waking up reminded him that those things were impossible now. When he opened his swollen eyes again the world outside the window of his apartment seemed brighter, maybe just in comparison to the darkness behind his eyelids. He stood to pull the shade, tears welling up to fall again, and stopped where he stood when he heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.   
  
Something in his mind desperately _hoped,_  despite the fact that 'no survivors' was still echoing in his mind. So when the heavy click of a key turning in the doorknob sounded, he cried out, numb with shock.   
  
Marco - moving, breathing, alive - backed through the door, tossing a suitcase onto the floor once he'd closed it behind him. He turned to face Jean with a mixture of frustration and confusion, obviously unsure what to make of his puffy, tear-stained face. He seemed to be talking himself into staying upset, and finally huffed out a few words.  
  
"Well, I hope you're happy."  
  
Jean stared at him, still hiccuping from the force of his crying. "I - well, of  _course_  I'm happy, you're... how did -  _why_  are you here?"  
  
"They cancelled my flight." Marco leaned back against the closed door and crossed his arms, making his best attempt at a glare. Jean just shook his head, stumbling over thoughts and words at once.   
  
"But you left early - you should have - you shouldn't  _be_  here.  _How_  are you here?"  
  
Marco heaved a sigh. "I'm here until morning because you  _insisted_  on causing a scene and keeping me from making my flight."  
  
"But I  _didn't_  --"  
  
"Oh,  _don't_  pull that on me, Jean. You show up at the airport and make an absolute  _ass_  of yourself and then just disappear - I had to get a cab to get home! They cancelled my flight completely, and I had to deal with all those people, acting like it was my fault, because of you."  
  
Jean dragged his hands down his face, conflicted by his confusion, his frustration, and his genuine  _joy_  that Marco was still there for him to argue with. "Marco... On the news this morning - they said your plane went down. That there were no survivors!"  
  
"I...  _what?_  Jean, my flight never even left the airport. They grounded the plane for maintenance after  _you_  showed up screaming about how it wouldn't make it to Baltimore if they took off. You almost caused a complete shut down of the entire airport -  _please_  tell me you aren't  _actually_  claiming you don't remember."  
  
Jean nodded desperately. He could tell Marco was angry with him, but more even than convincing him that he was telling the truth, Jean just wanted him to relax enough to let him close enough to  _hug_  him. "But... this morning..."  
  
"Sweetheart, it  _is_  morning," Marco said, clearly softening with what might have been pity at Jean's obvious confusion. "It's not even noon yet. I'm... a little worried about you, I'm gonna be honest."  
  
"No, it's three in the afternoon, at least!" Jean scrambled fully to his feet to look at the wall clock, nearly swallowing his own tongue when he saw the time; 11:46 AM. He looked back at Marco, shaking his head. "I saw the news! I came home early from work, and I..." He glanced at the wall; the shelf was still latched securely to its surface, despite the fact that he could feel a bruise forming on his knuckles from knocking it to the floor hours earlier. But everything was still there, still in one piece - except for the tiny statue. He knelt down to pick the pieces up, hearing Marco give a disappointed sigh.  
  
"Oh no, that little guy got broken?" He looked over Jean's shoulder and frowned. "Guess we'll have to throw it away. You remember the little story, right? Once they're broken, they say nothing can fix 'em."  
  
"No force on earth," Jean mumbled as he nodded, realization of what might've happened washing over him. Somewhere behind him, Marco gave a weak chuckle.  
  
"But don't we get a wish, now that it's busted?"  
  
Jean shook his head, tears he knew he'd cried earlier returning to his eyes.   
  
"I think I already used it."  
  
He spent the evening trying to prove to Marco that he was still sane, while also trying to show him just how grateful he was that Marco was still there for him to prove it to. He couldn't remember a night in his life when he'd repeated the words  _'I love you'_  quite as much. When he received a casual text from Connie that evening, asking why he'd missed a full day of work, he didn't bother responding; he didn't really know the answer, after all. But it didn't matter. Marco was  _alive_  - very present and very real - warm beneath Jean's shaky fingers.   
  
Curled up together on their couch that night, he talked Marco into bowing out of his business trip altogether, and when Marco finally gave up worrying about him to fall asleep on his shoulder, he silently thanked a broken statue for fixing what might have been a very broken life.


End file.
